Night is When the Stars Shine Brightest
by selizabethharrisburg
Summary: This is a story of the Refuge, of a desperate friendship formed in the bleakest of situations, and of a jailbreak that became about so much more than one boy. It's a story of the first life that Racetrack Higgins saved and the eternal friendship that resulted. "I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars." - Og Mandino
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, whoever you are who happens to be reading this, and welcome! This is my first multi-chapter Newsies fic. This first chapter is on the shorter side, but I hope you enjoy it just the same. Things start to get _really_** **interesting in the next chapter, which I hope to have posted by next Friday, which is December 8th.**

 **I am a fourteen-year-old aspiring author, and I've always been extremely timid of sharing my work. If you read this chapter, please, please leave a review, whether you loved it, despised it, or had mixed emotions. I'm always looking to grow as a writer. If I can get three reviews before I post the next chapter, I'll be delighted.**

 **So now, before I bore you to death, I'll finish this by just saying thank you for reading, and welcome to "Night is When the Stars Shine Brightest"!**

* * *

William Snyder had no idea how, or why, or even really _when_ , the youngest generation had gotten soft and cocky and pretentious. All he knew was that sometime, between when he was a child in the 1850s and now, any sort of self-discipline and respect had been completely lost. When he was a child, their attitude, so full of themselves and bursting with conceit, would never, ever have been acceptable. None of these children of the 1890s had any respect for any figure of authority, be it a streetsweeper or the owner of the greatest newspaper in the country. And to rub it in further, they went around stealing food to stuff their faces with. Never mind that most of them made decent wages doing one of the many jobs that was available for children in nineteenth century New York City. They took apples off carts and bread out of bakeries and didn't look the slightest bit sorry for it. Not even when they were caught outright.

Snyder had stolen exactly once, when he had been seven years old. The welts from his father's belt, which had lingered on his back and legs for weeks, had made it completely clear to him that such behavior was totally intolerable. And he had not once shoplifted ever again. The same went for respect for authority. As a boy, he'd learned early and well that elders, whether they were five or fifty years older than you, were expected to receive absolute obedience, submission, and trust. They had lived more years, they had more experience, and they just knew better. You would respect them or you would feel sorry.

Somehow, though, those lessons - which had seemed to clear and obvious just forty years earlier - had been lost on the children born in the 1880s. They were disrespectful and cocky, sauntering around the streets like they were the kings of New York. As if they'd done anything - _anything_ \- to earn those titles.

Snyder tried to help them. He really, truly did. At first he'd spoken to them gently, told them why they were wrong, quietly insisted that they apologize to those they'd hurt. But the kids just laughed and tore themselves from his grip, darting down side alleys before he could turn and chase after them. Snyder quickly became a laughingstock of the street, just as much as the street cleaners they shoved to the side as they sprinted down the alleys that had been cleaned by those same men not an hour before.

 _Spare the rod and spoil the child._ The words whispered in Snyder's ear every time he calmly tried to make the kids understand where they went wrong, every time they laughed at him for it. Clearly, none of them would listen to his words. Some of them, at least, would surely listen to his belt.

And so, it was with the governor's approval that, in, 1891, the Refuge was opened in Manhattan. It was originally intended to be a place of rehabilitation. The governor at that time, David Hill, fully agreed that sometimes corporal punishment was needed to get through to the youngest generation. And so he gave Snyder the permit, advised him not to mortally injure any of the children or leave them crippled for life, and left him alone.

And still, Snyder tried to help them. He did. He wanted them out of his hair, back on the streets as mature, respectful citizens of New York. And yet none of them ever seemed to want to comply. When the Refuge opened, they all blamed _him_. They called him the antagonist, the enemy. The bad guy. Never mind that he'd asked them politely to respect their elders for years and was now simply trying to get them to obey in a more drastic manner. No, it was his fault. It was always his fault.

Over the years, nothing changed. By 1895, everything was exactly the same as it was four years prior. No, to be fair, not the same, Snyder admitted. Worse. Far, far worse.

Because now the Refuge was billed as a jail - a juvenile jail - and the kids outright called Snyder the warden. Their behavior was worse than ever. Levi Morten, the current governor, still left Snyder alone, and that's when the Refuge got out of hand. Because suddenly, it became less about rehabilitation, and far more about punishment.

The kids already hated him, and it was beginning to get to Snyder. Now it was time to make them fear him as well.

Snyder became crueler. And every time he released a kid to go scampering back to their titchy friends with horror stories and warnings to not cross the law, he saw terror crop up in more young eyes when they looked at him. And it pleased him. It pleased him immensely.

Because when they were _afraid_ of something, it made them less likely to break the law. And that, for whatever reason, was a step in the right direction.

Snyder didn't take kids in for first-time offenses. Despite everything, he knew the Refuge was a rough place. Keeping dozens, even hundreds, of rowdy teenage boys locked up behind bars for months didn't exactly create a pleasant environment, and Snyder was, albeit reluctantly, willing to give first-time thieves the benefit of the doubt. He'd try to talk to them, tell them he didn't mean to lock them up yet. He'd even put in effort to try to reach out to them through some of their friends. If he saw them selling papers for the _Journal_ , well, then, he'd tell some of their staff members to remind the kids that stealing was wrong and reiterate the several local soup kitchens where they could get food if they needed it. It was only the third or fourth time he saw a specific kid rob that he would move to arrest them.

First-time offenses were fine, but repeat thieves just infuriated Snyder. They knew stealing was wrong - they _knew_ it, damn them - and it wasn't as if they were broke or had no other places to get food. He'd told them they were in the wrong and he'd warned them. Now, if he didn't follow through on his threats, they'd never respect him or any other adults ever again.

It was the blond boy - the newsie from the _World_ \- who really pushed Snyder's buttons. Strutting around the street like a peacock, like he owned the entire city, that expensive - and obviously stolen - cigar wedged, eternally unlit, between his clenched teeth. Snyder had seen the boy since he was so young he could hardly walk or talk, always hanging around on the streets, playing marbles with the rest of the youngest kids. Marbles that Snyder knew very well had been stolen weeks ago from an expensive children's toy shop around the corner, frequented only by the richest parents of the city.

Snyder had watched the boy, observed how, as he grew, he only became cockier. By the time he was nine, he clearly considered himself one of the best newsboys on the street, despite the fact that Snyder watched him clam up and stare reverently up at that other boy - Jack - who was just a few years older than him. Two years, in fact; just that. Snyder saw him as he grew, saw as he celebrated his eleventh birthday by stealing a brownie from a bakery window, despite the fact that the treat cost just two cents and he easily could have afforded it. Snyder watched him as he grew and changed and became so much more obstinate than the man could have thought possible.

Snyder kept trying to arrest him, but the boy was slippery. He was cocky and pretentious and he wouldn't listen. He wouldn't hold still. So many times Snyder had promised to let him go if he just stopped struggling, but the boy never heeded.

By the time that boy was fifteen, Snyder hated all of the newsboys with a burning passion. They'd all stolen so much, and rubbed it in people's faces so consistently, that if Snyder could manage to get even one of them in his grip he'd keep them locked up for a year. And yet all of them were so cunning, and got away from him so easily. Sure, he'd managed to take that little boy, the eleven-year-old, to the Refuge for a few weeks a year or so ago, but since then his trail had mostly been dry. And Snyder wanted to hear their screams again. Sure, he had other inmates to deal with, but none so satisfying as the newsboys, who had done so much wrong.

So when he saw that older boy, the fifteen-year-old, the one with the cigar, leaning against a street-corner in the early morning, all alone, Snyder pounced. And the boy didn't know what hit him. Snyder just laughed. Ten years after he'd met the boy and he _finally_ had him, for once, in his grasp.

And he was going to pay. He was going to pay for every single time he'd stolen from someone, every time he'd taken a treat from the baker who was one of Snyder's best friends, every time he'd pushed an older homeless man to the side, every time he'd scoffed at authority. He was going to pay. He was going to scream and cry with the pain of it, and Snyder was going to enjoy every second, every sound, every moment when the boy was finally put in his place.

 _Just you wait._

* * *

The day when fate turned brutally against Race - October 7, 1898 - had started out remarkably pleasant for an October day in New York City. The sun was actually shining, which was a miracle in itself; and when Race had gotten up that morning, he hadn't even bothered to put on his sweater. Yes, the air was crisp, but there was hardly a breeze blowing, and it would be nice to be outside without bundling up too much.

Race was out of the Lodging House by seven in the morning, far ahead of several of the other boys, just taking a quick walk. It was bright and shockingly clean on the city's streets that morning, and, despite everything, it felt like early spring. Race loved the feeling of the air on his upturned cheeks, the gentle breeze ruffling his golden curls. It was so nice not having to worry about anything, at least for a few moments snatched in the early morning.

Race sauntered along in the middle of the street, laughing a little at his own cocky air. He was only walking like that because the street was deserted, of course; if anyone had been around to see him, he'd have slunk back into the shadows. But hardly anybody was out and about, not on this street, anyways.

There were people, of course, milling about on the block Race turned the corner onto. It was a rickety, impoverished marketplace set up every Saturday for the mostly dirt-poor residents. They sold their wages much cheaper than any of the well-off, pretentious vendors on the next street up, who counted themselves infinitely superior.

Race stole from those vendors, yes, simply because they stuck their noses so high in the air. He made a point to frequent the 82nd Street market - the poorer one - when he could, though. And he always paid fairly. He, at sixteen, made more money than most of them did, and while he didn't often have a lot to spare, he wasn't going to swindle them. They didn't deserve that.

So Race made his way up to a boy selling apples. The boy, fifteen and a newly-arrived immigrant from China, had become fast friends with Race over the past few weeks. He was just learning English, and Race knew exactly what that felt like, having struggled to learn it himself when he was younger. They made a point of chatting with each other, gradually improving the Chinese boy's broken English and making Race feel like he was doing something positive in the world, for once.

"Hello, Jiao-long!" When Race spoke to the boy, it was always in a clear, deliberate voice. And Jiao-long appreciated every bit of it. The smile that widened his face brightened Race's own mood as he replied, in a heavily-accented but clear voice, "Hello, Race."

"How are you today?" That had been a phrase Race taught Jiao-long the past week, and Race was eager to see if the other boy remembered it.

Jiao-long thought hard, his face contorting, but finally responded, "I am good, thank you." Race's mouth fell open in a delighted grin. Grammar had been a major challenge for Jiao-long, but that sentence had been brilliantly crafted.

Race swore his heart was about to burst with pride. He knew he was grinning stupidly, but he really didn't care. So he just reached into his pocket, fished out a penny, and said, "One apple, please."

In reality, Jiao-long sold two apples for a cent, but Race had the extra cash and had no qualms about giving the younger boy something extra to take back to his family. Jiao-long knew it, too. So he handed Race a single apple, served with a broad grin, and told him, "Thank you," sounding remarkably sure of himself.

Race smiled. "You're welcome," he said slowly, watching Jiao-long's eyes light up as he understood. Race shot the boy yet another grin. "I'll see you next week," he promised gently, and Jiao-long smiled and agreed, "Yes." Then, tossing his apple as his blood ran with joy and pride, Race turned and made his way back the way he'd come, back to his customary streetcorner.

Alone on the corner, the sun starting to shower him with more warmth now, Race bit down hard into the apple. It was good, too; Race allowed himself to savor the moment as the juices ran down his throat. And Race wished it could stay that way forever. Standing in the crisp, early-morning air, biting into an apple, feeling the cold but strong sun grace his shoulders. In a few minutes, he knew, he'd have to go meet up with Jack and buy his daily allowance of papers. But for now, he was content to wait and finish his breakfast in the sunshine.

The possibility didn't even enter Race's mind that the moment could be suddenly, brutally shattered by something other than the bell signifying that his peaceful morning spent in blissful solitude was over. But it could be, and it was. It was fate's doing, Race reflected later. Because right then, the moment was broken.

" _Higgins."_ The word - Race's last name - was growled suddenly in his ear, and Race, horrified, spun to see a face leering at him, smiling in satisfaction and eagerness and what Race could only describe as pure evil. A face he knew well, even though he'd never been that man's captive himself. Race had sat awake with and comforted enough of the smaller boys to know Snyder when he saw him. And despite the fact that he wanted nothing more to be brave and strong and confident, Race would be lying if he said he didn't feel a jolt of terror pang in his heart, if he said he didn't, in that moment, clam up and freeze, unable to do anything else.

And then, without any warning, there was the sudden, overwhelming pain of a fist colliding with his right eye, and Race choked out a broken cry as his entire face, including his throat, was suddenly jerked to the side. When the spots faded from his vision, Race found himself on his knees on the ground with no idea of how he got there. And then, suddenly, to his horror, he felt his arms being pulled roughly behind his back.

Race struggled. He fought and screamed and tried to lash out, but whoever was holding his arms had them in an iron grip. Race didn't even know who was grabbing him; he only knew that it couldn't be Snyder, because Snyder stood over him, smirking down at the boy, a triumphant gleam in his eye. Race's eyes found the man's gaze and quickly shot back down again, instinctively, in horror. The look in Snyder's eye terrified Race, and he was fighting a losing battle trying not to show it.

"You."

Race couldn't help but look up at Snyder's voice. His entire head was throbbing, and despite everything he wanted to emulate, despite the image he wanted to present to Snyder, he could feel tears from the awful pain welling in his eyes. _Blink_ , Race coached himself. _Blink the tears back. And whatever you do, don't let them fall. Don't let him see._

Snyder could not only see the tears glittering in Race's eyes, but he could also see the way Race was trying to bite them back. He was blinking too rapidly, trying to clear his vision. And Snyder couldn't help but let out an enormous laugh at the mask the boy was trying to draw over his clearly petrified features. Wow, but he looked pathetic. _Weak._ And it just made Snyder all the more eager.

The apple that had clearly been stolen - that much was obvious in Snyder's mind - was still clutched tightly in Race's fists, his knuckles turning white. Snyder just glanced down at it, and Race, following his eyes, could only wait nervously.

"Who did you steal that from?" Snyder's words were dangerously quiet.

Race glanced up in total fear, still trying not to let it show. Yes, he'd stolen food in the past, but today he'd paid for his apple fair and square. So he _knew_ Snyder hadn't been watching him, knew Snyder didn't know the full story. And yet he clearly didn't care. He pegged Race as a delinquent thief anyways. Which Race couldn't stand for.

"I didn't steal it. I bought it." Race could hear clearly that his own voice was thick and woozy, and he cursed himself. Why couldn't he keep his voice strong? That reflection was cut short, though, with yet another painful blow to Race's body, this one in the form of a crisp, stinging slap against his right cheek.

"Of course you didn't," Snyder mocked, dangerously, in a voice hardly above a whisper. "And you think I never see you, when you dart around and take things from the carts without leaving so much as a penny? Day after day? You think I don't notice?"

Race, who had let out a gasp at the heavy slap, shook his head desperately, trying to articulate his thoughts. How he only stole from the vendors who deserved it, who felt superior, and how he paid fair and square from everyone, including Jiao-long, who had less than he did. But Race couldn't get the words out in his addled state. "I - that's different," he choked desperately, trying to make Snyder understand. Trying, and failing.

Snyder actually laughed that time. " _Different_ ," he repeated, and his words were still frighteningly low. "Theft is theft, boy. One is no different from the other. And it's always inexcusable."

"Not sometimes," Race protested desperately, still trying to make his point; "not if - "

Suddenly there was a hand in his scalp, gripping his hair, forcing him to look up. And Race gasped. Snyder's eyes were black, flashing with malice.

"That's what you think, is it?" The words weren't even a question. They were an affirmation. A promise. A threat.

Race just shook his head helplessly, unable to do anything else. His heart was pounding painfully and he was still - _still_ \- trying to force back tears. "I - " he managed desperately, finding it simply impossible to choke out anything else.

But Snyder just laughed, shaking his head. "I think it's time for you to learn a proper lesson," he said softly. And with that, he grabbed Race's collar, hauling him to his feet, and, with practiced ease, easily snapped a pair of handcuffs around Race's wrists. The boy's knees were weak and shaky, and he could only stumble along as Snyder dragged him to the Refuge wagon parked around the next corner. Race tried to shout for help, tried to struggle, but it only earned him another smack on his already-bruising cheek. Race found he couldn't even fight anymore as his thin frame was tossed roughly onto the floor of the wagon, and the doors were chained behind him.

The last thing Race saw before his vision went black was a split-second glimpse of Jiao-long's terrified face, staring at him through the bars.

And then Race saw nothing at all.

* * *

 **If you're still here, well, then, thanks for sticking with me through that chapter! I promise, things start to get really intriguing in the next chapter. I don't exactly have that written yet, but I know what's going to happen and I hope you'll find it exciting! (It starts to tie into the Newsies universe from the musical that we all know and love, and I think you'll enjoy the characters who show up in next.)**

 **Please tell me what you enjoyed and what you didn't by leaving me a review! I always love to hear critiques and praises. I am constantly looking to grow as a writer. Thanks for reading, and see you guys next time!**

 **(PS. Somedayonbroadway: thank you so much for the ideas and the encouragement to write this. I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for constantly inspiring me with your writing!)**


	2. Chapter 2

**OK, this chapter is on the shorter side, but it has a lot of important things in it. I really hope it lives up to the last chapter! This starts off with Race, but we get some of Snyder's perspective near the end. You also meet a very important character in this chapter!**

 **So at the beginning of the last chapter, I asked for three reviews. I wasn't sure I'd even get that - I've never gotten more than two reviews on a chapter before. But you guys blew me away! Thank you so much for SIX REVIEWS(!), and in just 24 hours! You guys are amazing!**

 **I know this might be super ambitious, but… can we go for 10 reviews on this chapter? It would make my day! Please leave a review if you loved this, despised this, or had mixed emotions. I really want to hear your thoughts, praises, and critiques!**

 **Destiel0502: Thank you for being my first review! I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I hope you like this chapter. Thanks so much for the encouragement!**

 **Fanz4life: Oh my goodness, I can't believe you actually left a review on my piece! You have prestige in the Newsies Fanfiction community, you know! Thank you so much! Snyder's perspective is interesting, isn't it? I like the Les Mis comparison! Different perspectives are fun to work with. And, haha, it wasn't intentionally a Hamilton reference, but kudos to you for catching that!**

 **BroadwayIsMyPurpouseInLife: Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I hope it manages to stand up as well as the last one!**

 **Julianne: Thanks so much! Thank you for the encouragement! I hope you find this chapter exciting, too. :) Thank you for reading and reviewing! (I love your name, too, by the way! It's so pretty!)**

 **Guest: Thank you so much! Here's the update you've been waiting for. I hope it's as good as the last one. Anyways, enjoy!**

 **And finally:**

 **SomedayonBroadway: What do I say? Your review literally made me tear up the morning I read it! Your asking for a bit of Snyder's perspective really flipped a lightbulb on for me. I love writing about Snyder's reasons. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you did the last one… Thank you for the encouragement. You've inspired me to write fanfiction. Keep being amazing!**

 **Wow, long author's note. Okay! Here we go!**

* * *

Race didn't remember being thrown into the Refuge; all he knew was that, when he managed to crack open his eyes to be met with a pounding headache, he didn't recognize the room he was in at all. It was dark and gray and cold, and the enormous room, crowded to overflowing with rickety wooden bunk beds, was so cavernous that Race felt like it was swallowing him whole.

Race shivered as he somehow found the strength to slowly slide his eyes open. It was freezing. He was lying on the cold cement ground, and the breeze forcing its way in through the bars on the open windows seemed so much colder than it had that morning. Just hours before.

There was a lot, in that moment, that Race didn't understand. He didn't understand where he was or why he was there. He didn't understand where everybody else was, why such a large room was so totally deserted. The only thing that reached his brain was the cold. The frigid cold. Why had the temperature dropped so much since the early morning? Race let out a slight groan as he moved to push himself up on his elbows, forcing his body up, with the intention of standing up and looking around, maybe figuring out where everybody was.

He had made it - painfully - to his knees when there was suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps outside the door he was lying next to. Without more than a second to think it over, Race threw himself back to the ground, lying still and silent as a key rattled roughly in the lock on the door, and, finally, the heavy wooden apparatus creaked open.

Race didn't turn his head or crack open his eyes to see who walked in, but he could tell as soon as one of them started talking. He knew their voices like the back of his hand; any newsboy would. And Race cursed internally. The Delancey brothers were rough and cruel, and they weren't likely to let him get through this encounter unscathed.

 _Breathe_ , Race coached himself desperately. _And whatever you do, don't let them see that you're awake._ It was better, by far, to pretend to be still unconscious - or at least addled. Oscar and Morris would mock him, yes, but their physical abuses would probably be less severe than if he was awake and backtalking them.

"If he ain't awake by now…" Morris's low murmur reached Race's ears, and Race had to hold himself tightly to make sure he didn't flinch and give himself away. Luckily, by the sound of their voices, neither of them seemed to know that he was awake - _yet._ Race just needed to make sure it stayed that way.

That became suddenly harder, though, when Race felt the hard toe of a boot in his stomach, not kicking him, but pushing his chest so he was forced to roll over onto his back. Race kept his body as limp as he could, forcing his face to remain blank and his eyes to remain shut for as long as he could. Preferably until they went away.

"Jesus," the other boy - Oscar - growled weakly. "What'd they do to this kid? Why ain't he woken up yet?"

Morris made a noncommittal noise. "'E's got a pretty good black eye. Coulda rattled his brain up a little. And Snyder did a number on him when 'e first got 'im in here."

That sentence bounced around Race's brain for a while. Snyder had beaten him, had he, when Race just arrived? While he was still unconscious? Well, then, that explained the fire shooting up and down his ribs, sparked higher when Morris had rolled him over. The pain was by far more intense now, rampaging through his chest, but he gritted his teeth, trying not to let it show on his face.

"Dirty bastard." Oscar's comment made Race's blood boil. "Always stealing, Snyder says. Ain't got an ounce of honesty in him."

" _We_ always paid for our food, even when we were fresh off the boat." Morris's voice was layered with frustration and indignation, and Race yearned to be able to tell them the same thing he longed to tell Snyder, how he only stole from those who deserved it, how he paid everyone who needed the money. But he couldn't give himself away. He was so close. Already the Delanceys weren't paying that much attention to him.

"We'll come back in half an hour," Morris decided, addressed to his brother, "and if he ain't awake by then, well, we'll take him to Snyder just the same. Drag 'im down the hall if we have to."

Oscar groaned at the idea but murmured his assent just the same. Then he turned to Oscar. "Can't we have a little fun with him? Just now? Before he wakes up?"

Race could hear Morris let out a heavy breath through his nose, noncommittally. Finally he just said, "Sure. Whatever. We've got him to ourselves, haven't we?" And Race almost gasped aloud in fright before he remembered himself.

 _Have a little fun with him._ There was no question at all in Race's mind what they were about to do. The only thing he wasn't sure about was whether he could keep himself composed and limp and seemingly unconscious while they beat him.

And suddenly his ribs exploded with agonizing pain, and it took all of Race's willpower to keep in a scream. He felt his entire body being thrown against the hard wood of one of the bunk bed's legs, but in that moment, he couldn't muster up the consciousness to do anything about it. He heard Morris and Oscar laugh cruelly, and Race could do nothing but swallow hard, breathe through his nose, and not let it show.

"Good one." Race almost exploded with fury at Morris's comment. He swore he was _this_ close to tearing himself from the floor, charging at them, pinning Morris against the wall and throttling him until the older boy was choking and gasping for breath. It took everything he could possibly do to hold still.

"Here, watch this." There was another breath, another chuckle, and suddenly Race's left temple exploded with pain. He couldn't help himself; he let out a short, clipped, choked cry. Luckily, Oscar and Morris were laughing too loudly to hear him; that, or they assumed the cry came from his unconscious.

Without warning, there was another harsh blow; and then, quickly, more and more. Race was struggling now not to scream, and worst of all, he felt dangerously close to actually blacking out. And just right when he thought he couldn't take any more of it, the blows stopped.

"We'll leave 'im alone for now," Morris decided. "Come back in half an hour or so."

Oscar murmured his assent, and Race felt his heart flutter with relief in his chest. Finally - _finally_ \- they were leaving him in peace.

The wooden door clanged open and then shut, and the keys jangled in the lock. When they were clearly far away, and only then, Race allowed himself to breathe.

For a long time, all Race could process was the pain. There was so much; it was so overwhelming. It flooded into his mind, filling his brain to the brim with white-hot agony, making him grit his teeth to hold back yells and screams. He couldn't think beyond it, couldn't comprehend anything else.

It was only after a good ten minutes that Race began to notice something else, something past the pain. And yet again, it was the cold. The frigid cold that seeped into the room and bit at his skin. And Race didn't think he could take any more of it. He needed to get warm.

 _You're in a room with bunk beds, Race_ , a voice in his head whispered softly. _There's got to be a blanket or two somewhere around here._

Race turned this over in his mind and decided it made some sense. And so slowly, painfully, he began the agonizing process of dragging himself to his feet.

It took nearly two minutes, far too long to stand up under normal conditions. But these weren't normal conditions, Race struggled to remind himself. He was in the Refuge - the _Refuge_ ; that still hadn't quite sunk in yet - and he was tottering on the edge of unconsciousness and burning with pain. The fact he managed to stand at all was a miracle.

When he was on his feet, he did, admittedly, still have to cling to the bedpost for support. He was shaking and his knees were already threatening to buckle. He had to sit down, _fast_.

Race glanced hurriedly around the room, his eyes probing the heavy wooden beds for any sign of blankets. He saw a few, all crumpled on tattered mattresses on the other side of the room. Just as he was sighing, preparing to make the long, agonizing trek over there, his eyes alighted on something else.

Race had thought the room was deserted. But, clearly, it wasn't. There was someone - and a very small someone, at that - curled up on a bed just ten feet away from Race. The figure wasn't moving, and his chest was only rising and falling very, very slightly. He looked to be sleeping, but not truly _resting_ , not well. Every now and then, he would toss and turn, lightly whimpering. As Race's eyes strained in the semi-darkness, he could see the beads of sweat standing out on the boy's small forehead.

Race suddenly felt his heart pang for the little boy, and at once he just wanted to be over there with him. So, with sharp, fiery pains digging into him with every step, he dragged his way over towards the boy.

By the time he got there, Race was stumbling, only staying on his feet by the clinging grip his fingernails had on the bedposts. He was shaking badly; and the second he reached the boy's bed, he collapsed on it, letting out a short, clipped cry.

The boy didn't move, didn't roll over, didn't make a sound, even as the entire bedframe was jostled as Race fell. His breathing was harsh and uneven, and even in his sleep he was gasping to get enough air. His face was flushed, but when Race laid a gentle hand on his cheek, he found it ice-cold. And Race couldn't understand why the boy wasn't smothered in all the blankets in the room.

Suddenly, absently, Race found himself running a hand through the little boy's hair, who only made a tiny whimpering noise in response. Race's heart twinged at how weak the boy sounded, how hopeless. How he sounded like he'd already given up.

And suddenly Race was _angry_ that somebody had left this precious little boy on his own, locked in a room with nobody to check on him, with no blankets, and nobody to hear him if he screamed or cried out or choked.

Almost as if they wouldn't mind if he died.

Race seriously contemplated stumbling to the other end of the room to fetch a blanket, but he couldn't find it in himself to move. And yet the boy on the bed was shivering, his tiny teeth clacking together with cold. And Race himself was frigid, his arms coated in goosebumps. So he did the only thing he could possibly think to do: he slowly, painfully lay down next to the shaking boy and took him into his arms, huddling with him for the tiny amount of warmth that their two bodies provided. The boy struggled in his sleep for a minute, frightened by the strong arms that wrapped tightly around him, but after Race shushed him with a nearly-silent whisper in his ear, the boy relaxed and melted into Race's embrace. And Race, overwhelmed with pain and exhaustion and cold, couldn't help but drift into sleep right next to him.

* * *

"See?" Oscar Delancey stood in the doorway of the room, staring at the scene in front of him. "I _told_ you he was just pretending to be asleep earlier."

Morris, the slightly older of the pair, sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine," he hissed in a choppy undertone. "But so what? Now we've got another excuse to be mad at him."

Oscar huffed, but didn't respond. Too quickly, though, he slammed the door shut and strode quickly across the room to where their captive was huddled on a the lower bunk of a hard wooden bed, cradling that other infernal little boy to his chest.

"Wake him up." Oscar jumped slightly at his older brother's short command, but, rolling his eyes slightly, he did as asked. Reaching down to grab a fistful of the boy's curly blond hair, he forced Race's face up and delivered a swift slap to the boy's cheek.

Race gasped, and his eyes shot open as his already-bruised skin alighted with pain again. His eyes narrowed as he saw the faces leering down at him, and through his dazed brain, he managed to choke out, _"You."_

Morris may have been frustrated with his younger brother, but that certainly didn't mean he didn't still constantly protect him. And so he matched Race's glare. "Yes. Us, Higgins. You think we don't know you were faking back then?"

Morris's smile widened as Race's eyes did, and as guilty shock flitted across his face. _Jackpot._ He wanted to gloat, wanted to rub it in; but that wasn't what he was here to do. So instead, Morris just smirked and grabbed the boy's collar.

"Come on. Get up, Higgins. Snyder wants to see you."

Race's eyes filled with terror, and Oscar and Morris could see it quite well. He was barely even trying to disguise it. It made both of them laugh. They knew what Race had done, knew why Snyder wanted to punish him, and both of them were eager to see him get what he deserved.

Race didn't move, and Oscar suddenly lost his patience. "Get _up_!" he demanded, reaching out and dragging Race by the collar out of the bed, so he landed hard against the concrete floor. Race gasped, trying to hold in his cries of pain.

But then he saw Morris reaching over the bed, over the boy who still lay there. "Don't touch him," Race gasped, struggling to get back to his feet; Oscar just kicked him hard and pinned him to the ground with a foot on his chest. Race struggled, crying out for the little boy on the bed, screaming as he saw Morris's palm flash in the air and heard it connect with the skin of the little boy's cheek.

"Leave him alone!" Race's scream rent the air. He didn't even know why he cared so much. He'd just met the boy; he hadn't even _talked_ to him. Race didn't know his name, how old he was, or why he was stuck in the Refuge.

 _I do know he shouldn't be here, though. I do know it's not fair. I do know he deserves better._ The mantra ran through Race's ears. And he knew then, suddenly, exactly why he had to protect the boy as much as he could. The younger kid didn't deserve any of this. He was sick, on the cusp of death; Race recognized the symptoms of what the boy was going through when he saw them. The quickened breaths, the flushed face, the clammy skin, the coughing, the fatigue; pneumonia had claimed five lives at the Lodging House the past winter, and Race was determined that, as long as he could fight for the boy, that little kid wouldn't become the sixth.

And so he yelled.

"If you touch him, you'll pay!" Race screamed, still kicking, still lashing out under Morris's foot. "If you touch him, you'll be sorry!"

The Delancey brothers both just laughed. Oscar was on the edge of hysterics. This boy - this weakened, beaten, bloody, delirious boy - was lying on the ground, pinned to the floor under his brother's foot and unable to get out, and was telling them _they'd_ be sorry? _He_ was going to hurt _them_? This boy, who'd stolen, lied, deceived, trespassed, and robbed, was acting all righteous, and threatening _them_? It was too funny.

It took Morris's firm hand on his shoulder for Oscar's laughter to cease. Taking one glance at the glint in his brother's eyes, Oscar suddenly knew it was time to be serious, knew that sometime very soon, this boy was going to be punished for everything he'd done wrong.

"Come on."

Suddenly Morris seized Race's collar and hauled him to his feet, dragging him roughly out of the room. Oscar followed, locking the door behind him. And just like that, the trio was gone, leaving a deserted room, save for a tiny ten-year-old with jet black hair shivering and coughing on a hard bunk bed.

* * *

Snyder was eager. No, more than eager. He was _excited_. Open on his hard wooden desk was Race's file, a manila folder he'd kept carefully stocked for nearly a decade. It contained a list of fifty-seven crimes he'd seen the boy commit in the last ten years. It was mostly petty thievery - an apple snitched from a cart here, a crust of bread taken from a bakery there - but there were more major charges, too. Charges for assault and for fighting, for aiding and abetting a major robbery, for stealing nearly $25 worth of blankets from a store run by a recent Irish immigrant who needed every penny. True, that had been two years ago; true, some of the crimes were close to a decade old. But Snyder was still determined to punish the boy for everything he'd done. To prove to him, once and for all, that stealing was not and never would be acceptable.

The boy's eyes were clouded when Oscar and Morris shoved him into the room. He stumbled, struggling to catch his balance. Even so, he swayed on his feet. But he fixed Snyder with a piercing glare, and Snyder was sure the boy was conscious.

Beneath the layers of hatred in the boy's blue eyes, Snyder could clearly see the emotion he longed for the most. He could clearly see the pure terror. And it pleased him. It pleased him greatly.

"Please, Mr. Higgins." Snyder rose, placing his hands on his desk. "Sit down." He gestured towards a hard-backed wooden chair set up for the occasion. Race's eyes found the chair, and, without breaking his eye contact with Snyder, moved to sit down.

"Mr. Higgins," Snyder breathed again, and Race flinched, wishing he'd stop saying his name like that. It reeked of superiority, and it made Race's skin crawl. It was horrible.

"Do you know what this is?" Snyder gestured towards the file folder open on his desk. Race didn't react. He just kept his gaze fixed on Snyder's eyes. Very quickly, the older man started to get impatient. Defiance was one thing, and he'd expected that; but the way Race was just blatantly ignoring him was beginning to get under his skin.

"Answer me, boy." The words were low, soft. Snyder saw Race wince very slightly at his voice - at least there was that - but still, he didn't respond. Snyder rolled his eyes.

"You have three seconds, boy. This is a yes or no question. Very simple. Do you know what this folder is?"

Race fully intended to hold his tongue, to keep his silence. Let Snyder slap him. He'd show the older man that he couldn't be intimidated that easily. That would send a message.

His eyes widened, though, as Snyder casually glanced at his pocketwatch. His other hands counted down the seconds. _Three - Two -_. And as he held up two fingers, Snyder reached down, picking up a pair of brass knuckles. Race's eyes widened in horror - he didn't think he could take another beating that brutal, not so soon - and just as Snyder held up one finger and slipped the knuckles onto his own hand, Race gasped, closed his eyes, shied away, and choked out, "No, sir."

A tiny smile spread on Snyder's lips as he saw the boy's cheeks flush with shame. Here, at least, was a start. Some sight of fear. Here was the first time Race had willingly submitted to an adult, without being beaten for it first. Sure, he'd been intimidated, and that was what made him speak. But he was finally responding, learning how to answer to authority. It was a start.

"This is your file, _boy_." Snyder spat the word like it was poison. "Every single crime I've seen you commit since you were an illiterate four-year-old who didn't speak a word of English. No doubt there are _thousands_ more. And you're going to pay for every last one of them."

Race's eyes flashed dangerously, and suddenly he didn't care about the brass knuckles on Snyder's desk, or the way his cheek burned, or the way Snyder was glaring at him like he was a shark's trapped prey. Suddenly all that mattered was that little boy lying on the bed and what an injustice that was. What a _crime_ that was.

"Oh, so you'se tellin' me you ain't ever broken the law," Race spat, eyes glittering. He saw Snyder's black eyes narrow dangerously, but he didn't care. "As if this entire operation ain't a crime. As if - "

And then, suddenly, again, yet another heavy slap, the same place as the last two, right over an already-forming bruise. Race bit down hard on his lip, drawing blood, but he didn't cry out. And, undeterred, he found it in himself to continue.

"There's a kid, can't be more than ten or eleven, lyin' alone in that room, shiverin', without a single blanket to keep him warm. He's coughin', and he's gonna _die_ soon if you don't do something. And you'se tellin' me you think you're the good guy?"

And just like that, a wave of guilt flooded through Snyder. He tried to fight it back, tried to tell himself that it wasn't true, that the boy was just trying to make him feel bad. But… it was true. The boy was ten, and a very young ten at that. Snyder had seen the way his body shook with each hacking cough, seen the way he shivered. And yet he'd tossed him in that room anyways. Yes, the boy had stolen. Snyder had caught him after he'd beaten up a bakery owner with a baseball bat to snatch a few loaves of bread. But the kid didn't deserve to die for that… did he? The Refuge was supposed to make model citizens out of the delinquent kids, not kill them. That's what he'd told the governor all those years ago. And here he was, about to be a murderer.

But all the same… he couldn't let Race see that indecision, that guilt, despite the fact that it was hammering in his mind. The boy thought that he, Race, was right. And admittedly, at this point, he might have been. But telling him so would only inflate his big head. It would only tell him, reassure him that yes, he could cross Snyder. Yes, he could count on the warden of the Refuge to let him off easy. Yes, he could steal. Yes, he could be just as insubordinate as he'd been, maybe more.

And he couldn't let the other boys in the Refuge see that he cared about that small kid either. So Snyder didn't know what on earth he could do. His mouth twisted slightly; the only good way out was to let that ten-year-old fight his own battles, pull through with his life if he could do it himself. And not to get involved in matters of small children struggling to take their medicine, suffer their punishment, do their time.

So he sneered at Race. "That _kid_ , as you call him, robbed a bakery. He took a baseball bat and beat the shopowner bloody. That baker has seven children and his wife just died. That little boy stole unabashedly, taking the money the baker had rightfully earned. Money that should go to those seven little children."

"Maybe _he_ has seven little siblings!" Race protested. "Who are you to judge him? He's doin' what he has to in order ta survive, and ya can't fault him for that! You - "

And suddenly there was a shot of pain in Race's unbruised eye, and a punch to his gut. Doubling over and crying out, Race toppled out of the chair and hit the ground with a thud. Suddenly there were more blows, more hits, more pain. Race heard a voice screaming, and in some distant part of his brain he realized it was him. More and more and more agony and then -

Silence.

Blackness.

Nothingness.

* * *

Snyder stood over the boy, who'd passed out about two minutes ago, sweat dripping from his face. Sreathing heavily, Snyder dropped his hands, slid the brass knuckles from his right fist. The boy had been screaming, shouting, yelling for him to stop. And Snyder kept telling him that this was punishment for a decade of misdeeds, this was what would happen again if he didn't change for good.

It felt good to see the boy finally pay for everything he'd done wrong. It felt so good to hear the boy scream and think, _This is for the time you stole the apple from Mr. Kreutzer when you were eleven. This is for the time you took a muffin from Sam's when you were twelve, even though I saw you counting your money right after, saw that you had plenty enough to pay. This is for the time you hit Oscar in the face when he was thirteen, when he was running an errand for me._ Snyder couldn't deny that it felt wonderful.

And, to be clear, he had no qualms about hurting Race, no qualms about punishing him for every crime.

But… why did he still feel guilty?

It wasn't because of Race. Snyder knew that much. But a face kept popping up in his mind, an innocent ten-year-old with jet black hair, smirking, giggling. The thing was, Race was right about him stealing to feed his family. Snyder knew the boy had at least three little sisters. And, in all honesty, he probably really didn't deserve the Refuge.

 _But if I go soft on him, it'll ruin everything I've worked for, everything the Refuge represents._

Ignoring the sight of the fifteen-year-old lying still, whose blood was soaking into his carpet, Snyder dropped into his chair and clutched his head in his hands.

He had to let the little boy fight for himself. He had to abandon him to the torture of the Refuge.

It was the only way he could retain his authority, the only way he could stay in control. He _knew_ that.

So why did it still feel wrong?

* * *

 **All right! How was that? I hope you enjoyed it. Again, please leave me a review whether you liked it or not. Tell me what went well or what didn't work. I'm always looking to grow as a writer!**

 **Thank you so much. I hope you enjoyed; see you next time!**


End file.
